Cataclysm
by chgirl
Summary: Post Frame. Quick, give me your hand.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters, I'm just having fun -- they belong to Dick Wolf.

Continuation of _Frame_.

Reviews are great…

**Cataclysm**

_don't go home  
don't go away  
don't let this end  
please stay _

_-- The Cure,_ _From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea_

". . . She said it didn't take much, you know . . . a little smile, a little shove. . ."

Eames winced and shook her head behind the mirror, watching helplessly as his former mentor pulled out a few more of Goren's underpinnings. Her mind's eye pictured the crazy codger's confession of his horrific deeds as an enormous tsunami, sweeping away not only fragile but foundational structures, leaving broken flotsam, jagged bits and pieces strewn in its wake. Bobby's shell-shocked expression said it all.

_Oh, Bobby. . ._

After Doctor Demento was taken from the room, she watched her partner sit staring straight ahead, hollow-eyed. She went in and sat across from him; other than a brief flick of the eyes, he didn't acknowledge her presence. After a few minutes, his face dropped into his hands. When an officer poked his head in, asking her to come handle a processing detail with Gage, she slipped out, intending to go right back in. But of course it took longer than it should have. And when she finally did come up for air (really only ten minutes later), he was gone.

She returned to her desk; Goren's was still in disarray, his ever-present notebook lying amid the papers. She figured he needed some time to collect himself (_How? after these past few days?_), but after twenty minutes, the first tendrils of concern started creeping in. _Relax --_ _give him a little time_. When the twenty turned to forty minutes without his reappearance, however, she collected her things and headed for the elevator. Rang his apartment, then his cell. _Brilliant, Alex -- did you really think he'd answer? No, but I had to start somewhere._

_//_

So now she stands at dusk on the street corner outside One Police Plaza, surveying the busy intersection in every direction, wondering how in the world she let it happen. She shook her head. _Of all the days for Bobby to go off by himself. . . not today._

_GPS -- that's the one way I'm going to find him anytime soon._ She turns back inside.

//

He's determined not to think. About paternity. About betrayal. About misplaced respect. About revenge. About botched familial relations. About twisted minds.

About being completely . . . alone.

Every time his mind flits tentatively toward the reality of all that's happened, his gut wrenches violently, and he forces his mind to dance away from it again. Too painful, too surreal.

Determined not to think. Determined to be blank. Determined. He nods at the bartender and receives another double. "This is your last one -- I can't serve you for a while."

_Screw that,_ he thinks,_ I might as well buy a bottle elsewhere and go home. Numb up in private. _ He downs the drink in one toss.

As he ever so unsteadily rises to his feet, he sees Eames walking towards him.

"Bobby--"

Even if he had something to say in return, he's not sure at this point that he's capable physically of verbalizing even the shortest reply. He just stares at her with dull, heavy-lidded eyes and says nothing.

Unsteadily.

"You've been busy, I see." She gives him a wry smile.

He languidly retrieves his glass and drains the dregs. He looks back down at her.

"Come on. Let's go."

She hands him his jacket, and waits for his gentle swaying to subside. She walks close to him, serving the necessary function of propping him up occasionally, and they manage to reach the front door in a this-would-be-funny-if-it-weren't-all-so-pitiful way, and step out into the drizzly summer night.

//

She flags a cab and pours Bobby in. Climbing in after him, she's rewarded with the first noticeable reaction to her presence -- those signature eyebrows arch with a quizzical look and a slight scowl as he turns towards her.

"You could use some company right now, Bobby."

His head lolls back with the barest hint of a nod, and he looks out through the moisture on the window.

She reflects privately on how remarkable it is, that he's inflicted this much damage on himself in the short two hours or so that he's been gone. As the scenery flies by, she fondly glances over at the brilliance that is her partner, now dimmed. What she wouldn't give to change things for him. What the heck -- what she wouldn't give to change a lot of things with Bobby.

_Don't go there, Alex,_ she warns herself, not for the first time.

And for lack of anything to really do or say, she reaches over and slips her (slim, small) fingers around his (long, expressive) ones. And she's surprised when he firmly grips hers in return.

The entire way to his apartment, she holds his/he holds her hand. After they finally pull up at their destination, she makes a move to disengage her hand to pay the driver, but – surprisingly -- he retrieves a fistful of cash from his pocket with his unoccupied hand (_how much? who knows_), and unceremoniously throws it through the fare window at the driver. Her hand remains wrapped in his as she pulls him, with some difficulty, free of the cab.

He weaves with her up to his apartment door, where he fumbles his keys but manages to let them both in. With a sudden burst of coordination, he unerringly lurches to the kitchen with her in tow, and removes a bottle of Glenmorangie from an upper shelf. _Doesn't this occasion call for something a bit more low-brow?_ she thinks, as he proceeds to pour an astonishing amount in a glass for himself, marginally less for her. _Call me crazy, but he's gonna finish his way before I finish mine,_ she sighs to herself.

And she's right, of course. He throws his back in one shot, and then looks at her expectantly. She gamely manages to get at least half of hers down in two tries. For a fleeting second she thinks about refusing, but then remembers that she's not driving anywhere anytime soon, and after this horrid day, _why not?_

He refills his glass, and tries to top off hers, but she takes the bottle from him and sets it aside, telling him, "If you keep this up, you are so going to regret this in the morning."

He rolls his eyes, but reluctantly acquiesces. After taking another large gulp, he sets down his glass and pulls her with him several feet to the couch, where he sinks heavily into the cushions. She has no choice but to follow, since he's still grasping her hand. And as she falls into the couch, and into him, he looks down and slides his fingers between hers, leaving her hand more firmly ensconced than ever.

She feels a shivery thrill. Even though it bothers her to admit it, that grizzled, twisted, old geezer was right about one thing – she cares about her partner deeply. She smiles to herself – _even a broken clock tells the correct time twice a day, right?_ The large quantity of scotch she inhaled begins to make itself felt, and she closes her eyes, pictures herself as one of those pieces of flotsam (_or is it jetsam?_), floating in the tsunami's wake, with Bobby clinging to her like his life depends on it.

//

He looks longingly down at her; her eyes are closed. A little Mona Lisa smile occasionally plays across her face. He desperately wants to lean over and kiss her.

But although he has the laser-like keenness to read the microscopic details of any suspect, has this known tendency to throw caution to the wind when it comes to ferreting out criminals, their motives, and deeds -- he doesn't trust himself about HER, second-guesses what he reads in HER, can't risk alienating HER, the one person who's left, who matters most. Can't risk mistaking her concern for desire, maiming the one relationship that trumps any others, past or present. _What would I do without her? _ He won't -- he can't -- chance it.

//

So she does instead.

She opens her eyes. . . sees the depth of emotion in his bleary gaze.

And she sits up tall, gazes back, and brings her mouth to his.

She can't leave him adrift.

//

Palpable waves of relief . . . satisfaction . . . warmth . . . wash over him. He brings up his hand, twined in hers, to touch her neck, her jaw. He presses back into her, his other hand stroking her hair, as he luxuriates in the sensation of finally reaching terra firma.

His eyes drift shut as he sinks into regrettable yet inevitable unconsciousness. He quietly breathes the only words he's spoken all evening -- words he's really wanted to say to her for such a long time. "Please . . . stay."

//

She can still taste his last mouthful of scotch on her tongue, can feel his head gradually rest its weight atop hers as she leans against him. Their fingers are still interlaced, but his grip is finally loosening.

She closes her eyes again and smiles. "I'm not going anywhere."

///


End file.
